


Resemblance

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Gen, fermet exists, references to past abuse, spoilers for 1700s arcs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 11:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18872305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: She is fascinated with mirrors, too, and metal spoons, elevator doors, clear, still puddles on the street – anything that captures and spills out light. How many times has she found her sat with her nose pressed to its twin image? Enthralled by the world only when it is reflected back at her, phantomwise.Lucrezia seeks out a deal, only to find that there is little of left of Begg to bargain with. Niki gets caught up by reflections.





	Resemblance

**Author's Note:**

> Please don’t bully me for not writing Begg’s fast talk as blocks of text, I tried it but it looked so icky and was incredibly hard to read back, it’s indicated by italics instead, I’m sorry Narita.

“How _awful_ ,” Lucrezia huffs. Her head is turned to the window as they walk. She purses her lips at the concrete skyline outside— then smiles at the sight of her own reflection. “To think we went out of our way to visit and he might not even be able to _talk_ to us. Isn’t it awful, darling? I might cry.”

Not for the fact that the man is in such a state, of course; only for the fact that it _hinders her_. She sighs wistfully, lifting her hand to the back of her head to rearrange the cluster of bobby pins keeping her fair hair in place. She feels too bright for this dreary place. The pale wallpaper and ugly decor are oppressive to her finer senses, and the linoleum flooring makes the _click_ of her heels sound all wrong. _Ominous_ more than alluring, bouncing off the thin walls in faint, ghostly echoes. She glances over her shoulder.

“Darling —?” And she stops in her tracks.

Niki is stood a meter or two behind her. Had her footsteps been so soft she had not noticed them fade away, or had she simply not been listening for them? Lucrezia gives herself credit and decides the former. Her bandaged hand is laid against the glass of the large window, while her uninjured left is furled against the sill to support her. She wears a blank expression as she gazes out. Or she is not gazing _out_ at all. Lucrezia imagines Niki caught by the sight of her own reflection just as she herself had been, yet not at all as she herself had been; no wonderment, no contentment, no vanity, only empty resignation to the broken body she now inhabits.

She is fascinated with mirrors, too, and metal spoons, elevator doors, clear, still puddles on the street – anything that captures and spills out light. How many times has she found her sat with her nose pressed to its twin image? Enthralled by the world only when it is reflected back at her, phantomwise. Once it grabs her attention Lucrezia cannot hope to vie for it. It must be morbid curiosity — a longing for comprehension. It must feel _maddening_ to find a stranger in the looking glass in the place of oneself, to see a monster fill one’s outline.

It must be _horrid_. For the sake of her mood, she decides to imagine she is daydreaming instead. Yes, daydreaming. That’s the easier answer. It is all sunshine and green fields, and she only looks blank on the outside because she is smiling so much in her dreams she forgets to smile for Lucrezia, too. It is a terrible shame, but one she can bear to live with.

She loops her arm around Niki’s and tugs her along gently while the other woman cranes her neck back, transfixed. After a few steps, Lucrezia stops to turn her face forward, cupping her chin with delicate fingers.

“It’s just a window, dear,” she says slowly. Her voice is light as always, but there is an edge of impatience to it. “I’m sure there’s one in his room as well.”

Niki looks at her for a moment, mouth parted in speechless confusion, then she blinks and nods. Lucrezia moves her hand to squeeze her forearm and resumes down the hallway until they reach the second to last door on the right.

The nurse on duty tells Lucrezia nothing she doesn’t already know; in fact, she tells her _less_ than Lucrezia already knows. She does not know of his immortality, nor a single detail of his past. To the staff here, he is strange but harmless; he is not old but he is _old_ , he never eats and rarely sleeps, yet he never comes close to death. He is a tragedy and a miracle but not enough of either to be worth prying into. He is just a quiet, murmured question that everyone pretends not to hear, sitting alone in his bed all day with his thoughts worlds away. She cannot tell if he looks _more_ or _less_ vacant than Niki. She ambles to the windowsill when they enter the room as she had suggested. Begg does not even turn his head.

There is a potted plant on his side table. Not flowers, no. A _plant_. Lucrezia clicks her tongue in distaste as she sits down beside it, ugly little thing that it is. A quick assessment of its yellowing leaves speaks volumes of how little care is taken of it. A _dying_ plant. Is this what passes for decoration in these places? She is beginning to consider making a donation to the home herself in the form of a few dozen floral arrangements, or perhaps an entire greenhouse, then she notices the card laid next to it. It is not decoration, then. It is _worse_. This is what passes for a _gift_ in these places.

“Begg dear, are you awake? I’d like to have a chat,” she says idly, plucking the card up. She takes it that he does not look at her, though truth be told _she_ does not look to see whether he does. She is turning the card over in her hand, amusing herself with the names written on the back. _Meyer_ and _Avaro_. So he still has company after all. “How long has it been? Ten, twenty years? No, that can’t be right.” — She counts the decades on her fingertips, feigning a surprised gasp when she makes it to her second hand — “Sixty? Mm, no… No, it’s closer to seventy now, isn’t it? My, it’s true what they say about time flying when you’re having fun.”

It always _does_ fly for Lucrezia. She giggles against the flat of her hand.

“Don’t you agree? How about you, Niki darling?” she asks, glancing her way. Niki gives a start, her shoulders rising with sudden fear. When her eyes meet Lucrezia’s they lower again, calm settling over what can be seen of her features, and she nods — though Lucrezia doubts she had heard the question. She seems to nod whenever she cannot decide what _else_ to do; compliance is to her a base instinct. Lucrezia is too given to her own base instincts to judge her for it, even if it is far from entertaining.

“What… do you… want…?”

The words are churned out slowly, so slowly that the effort of stringing them together into a cohesive statement furrows her brow, but once she has heard them she claps her hands together, ecstatic.

“Oh, you _can_ talk! Lovely! I heard the most awful rumours that you’d lost all powers of communication.”

He does not respond to this, just rolls his head away from her. She fans herself lightly with the greeting card.

“I want to ask you a favour,” she chirps, undeterred.

“You… _always_ … want a- a favour.” It is just monotone ticks of a metronome; she is grateful not to have to hear the resentment he would intone if he could.

“And I always deserve one, darling! Now then —”

“N… Niki…? Is that… Niki…?”

She can no longer see the emotion written on his face, but she sees the one written on Niki’s. Puzzlement — _puzzling_ , piecing the lines of Begg’s face into some distant memory, no doubt. She had not seen him since they parted centuries earlier, and his appearance has changed (although, Lucrezia thinks, not as much as _Niki’s_ has).

“You… look… like you did… the… first… time… we met.”

Lucrezia narrows her eyes. She leans forward on the palm of her hand, as though if she watches intently enough she will catch onto what he is _saying_. How must Niki have looked when they had first met if this bandaged, stumbling girl jogs his memory of her? She must have looked younger, she reasons — but she looks as old as she ever has — as old as she ever will _be_.

“Except… they’re, they’re covered… this… time.”

_Oh_. She straightens in her seat, folding her arms. She crumples the card in her hand, although she hardly notices. An injured Niki is a _recognizable_ Niki — of course it is. This is not her first tragedy; it is the latest in a long line. Lucrezia’s heart drops into her stomach in a brief flash of sympathy, but she fishes it out through her throat with ease.

“She looks like this all the time now, Begg dear. Did I not tell you about the accident? I’m sure I told you,” she hums, dismissive, as though she were discussing the acquisition of a nice necklace. “Nevermind. Back to that favour.”

“You were… part of, of… that… commotion…” he murmurs, no longer directing his words at either of them. His lids flutter shut, and Lucrezia cannot tell if he is dreaming or waking. Niki tilts her head and stares at him with wide eyes.

“She can’t _speak_ to you —” Lucrezia starts to explain before Begg turns to face her with a decidedly displeased expression. She pouts like a child scolded for breaking a plate. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! This isn’t _my_ doing — well, most of it wasn’t, anyway. Do you think I wanted the silly girl to end up like _this_?”

He exhales a long sigh, and his eyes are back on the ceiling, vacant. His mind, at least, seems to remain grounded for a moment longer this time.

“But… she… can write?”

“A few words here and there. With some help.” Lucrezia shrugs, looking away. “When she knows what to say.” It is so unpleasant a subject. She really has no desire to discuss it further, and it baffles her that he wants to. “Forget all that. There are more important things to…”

Niki has ambled over to them and perched herself at the foot of the bed. She looks at him for a very long moment with a very specific expression which Lucrezia cannot name or place but which she is sure, she is _sure_ , must be a statement — a word — a plea — in the only language she has at her disposal. It would be a glimmering moment of lucidity under any other circumstances, but it steals away from his already scattered attention the fragments that are _Lucrezia’s_ , and it takes all her virtue not to be more annoyed than she is.

“Oh, Begg, dear, _listen_. Listen to me,” she repeats. His brow is deeply creased, but, frustratingly, even this reaction does not belong to her. His eyes are fixed on Niki now. Lucrezia sits back in her chair, and the tone of her voice is an immature whine that does not match her age — apparent or true. “Why won’t you _listen_?”

* * *

 

There is a timeframe — a minute or two after she wakes where the world is just hazy enough that she can convince herself she is not a part of it. There is a moment of perfect clarity brought on by a feeling of displacement, where she knows the day exists in vivid detail but she is too far away to see it for herself. Blurred. _Softened_. The light is distant and blinking, and her vision is wrapped in comfortable darkness. All she can feel is weightlessness in her head, thoughts like flocks of birds pressing her mind upwards and away, back into dreams or nightmares — some lack of consciousness; it appeals whether it is _pleasant_ or not because at least it cannot _touch_ her. Here she is liberated from the gravity of reality. Perhaps she is dead. Perhaps there is a heaven. Perhaps she is there. 

Perhaps she is not.

The sun breaks through her lids and paints the world with blaring, shouted confusion, all hard edges and stark contrasts, and she is reminded. She is not in heaven; wherever she lives hell swarms around her. She winces as though the brightness piercing her eyes is a blade, and she turns from it. The shoulder she had slept on is stiff when she moves it, but it is a petty complaint compared to the pain that shoots up her wrist as she puts her weight onto her other hand. She is reminded; her lightheadedness fades and is replaced with every ache it had hidden. Her wrist which she had twisted freeing herself from an unkind grip, and the soreness on her face — her cheek — a bruise — two bruises, she lifts her fingers to count — no, three, including the one on the back of her hand. A dark purple brushed across her knuckles; this one had been hers, a small tribute to a smaller moment of freedom, an unrestrained fist thrown at a tabletop in a fit of rage. What an unfamiliar feeling. The pain unfurls as a warmth inside her chest. It might be _pride_. She wonders when she will have the courage, the rage, the anger to be so unrestrained again.

For now, all of it recedes beneath a layer of fatigue. The hot August air scorches her dry mouth when she breathes. How long has it been since she last drank? She had not thought to bring food or water with her. Setting off on a journey to the grave well-nourished would only draw out the process. She is marching off to war with a white flag tied around the waist. Fate will find her whether she bows to it or stands against it, and bowing is easier on the bones.

The wagon rocks to a slow halt, and her eyes adjust. She keeps her head down, chin tucked to her neck, watching the ground pass by underneath her. How many miles of it stretched from here to Lotto Valentino? How many more would stretch before they reached their destination? She is tired. Tired in the way one can only be after a long, deep rest; sleep had held her intimately close and she had grown attached to it, longing for it now that they had parted as one might long for an old friend. The riot in the city and the Mask Maker and her masters — all distant, recalled as the verses of a song etched onto her heart. How far away is the nearest town? Not _this_ far, surely. The breeze does not taste of the seaside, nor the factories, not salt or smog. She looks out onto the horizon and finds nothing but trees and shrubbery. They are further inland than she can ever remember being.

“ _Good to see you’re awake._ ”

The realization that they have stopped hits her abruptly. The driver had dismounted and walked around the back of the cart to greet her. How long he had waited for her response, she does not know. She blinks languidly. It is difficult to keep up with the man’s speech when she focuses on it; half-heard it is all but a lost cause. His gaunt face bears a faint smile, which she takes to mean he is not angry — but this is all she can parse. She forces her own smile and makes to push herself down onto the ground.

“Are we… um,” she mumbles through chapped lips, looking around herself as she finds her footing. There are no buildings and no streets as far as she can see. The gravel burns through the worn-down soles of her shoes. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and tries not to wince. “Is the town nearby? I can walk the rest of the way if it’s trouble.”

“ _No. No, it’s no trouble_ ," he assures. His brow creases and that faint smile disappears. “ _Though I’m afraid we drove past that town while you were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you, but I couldn’t afford to wait around._ ”

She frowns as she makes sense of his rushed words, then nods solemnly.

“I understand. I wouldn’t have cared if you’d woken me up, but it’s alright that you didn’t.” She shrugs. She had specified the neighboring town only because it would have imposed upon him the least, and so his decision is the one that matters. If she is to wander in search of a place to die regardless, the starting point is of little consequence. Still — “Why have we stopped, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“ _Not to worry. I’m only retrieving something from the luggage. I have no intentions of abandoning you here, if that’s what you’re thinking._ ”

It is — and she supposes she would not mind if that _was_ his intention. She had planned at first to walk on foot until her legs gave out, to let death take her wherever starvation and exhaustion caught up with her. All that had prompted her to seek this man’s help had been the chance of finding a place where it might be _easier_ to smile when that time came. She finds that there are _many_ things she does not mind now; _nothing_ seems of much consequence when her only goal is to reach an end.

“Oh… Okay.”

“ _We’re too close to my destination to turn around now, but I can take you along with me to the workshop._ ”

She stills at the word _workshop_. The gravel at her feet feels like fire and the air ripples smoke across her skin setting old burns ablaze.

“ _It’s not much further, if you_ —”

“No,” she says quickly. _No_ , not this time. “Thank you for the offer, but I can walk from here. I’ll —”

“ _You were part of that commotion in Lotto Valentino, weren’t you?_ ”

She furrows her brow. She had not _told_ him that.

“ _I’m only guessing. You looked like you’d run into some trouble,_ ” he explains, and gestures vaguely in her direction. She looks down at herself, her tattered, stained dress and scuffed shoes. She remembers the bruises, bold on her pallid skin. She remembers her dishevelled hair. Though she is nettled that her appearance still betrays the past she runs from, she cannot blame him for noticing how she wears it.

“ _You don’t have to tell me how you were involved. Truth be told I would rather not know — But you should know that the people at our workshop aren’t like the people in that city._ ”

He is mincing words. _They do not keep slaves_ is what he is saying, and there is something in his inability to _say it_ — something that speaks of apathy. Wilful ignorance. She has no love lost for apathy; it is as much to blame for their suffering as cruelty; it is its own demon — but she can stomach it. The wave of relief that comes with the assurance that he is _not_ contending to _buy_ her (would it have been a purchase if her master was not involved in the trade? _Steal_ her, then, and so soon after she has stolen _herself_ ), it is enough to distract her from any bitterness she might feel otherwise.

She leans back against the wagon, support she needs now the tension has evaporated to leave her groggy and weak again. She does not speak to respond, does not waste the scarce words her scratchy throat will allow her. She gives a nod.

“ _No harm will come to you — however long you choose to stay. If you still want to journey on once you’ve rested, I’ll do what I can to find you an escort to your next destination. I have too much to get done myself but I’m sure one of the other alchemists…_ ”

“Alchemists?” she asks in a small voice. The title brings to mind some of the few treasured memories she has; Elmer stepping in harm’s way for her, Monica and Huey saving her from the delinquents on the streets, the Mask Makers offering her their hands when she least deserved them. _Alchemists_. Saviours. Colour must return to her face.

“ _Yes, there are a number of us at the workshop._ ”

He is rummaging through a crate to the right of her. His hands quake — well, _most_ of him does, not in violent shudders but in constant jitters, slight enough that she does not notice until she sees him this close, and she thinks for a moment that it is her tired eyes playing tricks on her.

“ _One of them is around your age,_ ” — he pauses. Looks over, squinting — “ _Maybe a little older. He’s a nice young man — he’s been standing in as a guardian for the family heir, but once I’m there to relieve him of that duty I imagine he’ll be happy to help you on your way. Supposed to be wise beyond his years, too — if anyone can find wherever it is you’re looking to go, it’ll be him._ ”

“Is that —” her voice cracks. She coughs, and her words come out murmured. “Is that right.”

“Here.” He breaks from his rummaging to hand her a flask from his coat pocket, and speaks with measured calm, “Drink up, girl.”

She pulls herself back up to sit on the edge of the cart and shakes her head.

“That’s yours. I won’t take water from someone who deserves it more than me,” she protests in spite of the burning ache in her throat, but when he pushes the flask into her hands her fingers close around it instinctively.

“ _It’s not much further and I’ve had plenty. I’ll be fine_.” He turns his head away. “ _Besides, you won’t have much luck getting where you’re going if you die here from a silly thing like refusing to drink_.”

She drinks. It tastes like pity, but in all other ways it is water, so she swallows it. It only leaves the _vaguest_ feeling of shame in her gut. Meanwhile, the man has retrieved whatever it is he had been searching for. A small pouch. She does not question him on the contents.

“ _So, are you coming along?_ ” he asks. He is already walking around the other side of the wagon as he continues, “ _You’re welcome to get off now if you still want to. There’s another village not more than an hour on foot, but ours is closer anyway. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes if I can get these horses to stop lazing around._ ”

“I…” She nods, only to herself, and presses her back against the crate behind her. The flask is cool against her hands, and welcome in the heat of the day. “I’ll come with you. I won’t be able to stay for long. I couldn’t…” She frowns. “I can’t do that. Still, if it might help me find where I’m going next…”

She trails off, glancing up over her shoulder and listening for a response. The man is muttering to himself, words fast and low, and she decides that it is not worth the energy.

The wagon sets back into motion at a snail’s pace. She hears the man fling complaints into the sky. She supposes it will take far more than ten minutes, but the timing troubles her none.

Niki closes her eyes. The darkness behind her lids is warm, tinged yellow by the sun. Her knuckles are a whisper of iron against her lips, cut and bruised or armored, steel. She rests her head back and lets her mind drift as they move away from the light at the horizon.

* * *

 

Begg is slowed down to the frame-by-frame and crackling with static. He is a tape played too often and rewound too much.

In some ways, Niki is more in tact; her memories are drawn in finer detail, pain and anguish in vivid, high definition. When her thoughts take her back three hundred years, she hears every individual footstep of the men who storm her hiding place, the distinct way that each one resounds against the ceiling above her and turns her hope into fear. Begg is left with hazy, disjointed fragments. Though they are broken, the breaks are not the same.

All of this is very clear to Niki. None of it occurs to Lucrezia at all.

Lucrezia can only squint her eyes and strain her ears; a viewer, perpetually lost.

* * *

 

The workshop begins to feel like a home of sorts, but Niki is not sure she has a place in it. She is pressing these people into moulds of family members she has never known, and deceiving herself that their shapes are genuine. Every _good morning_ , every _how are you?_ , every expression of warmth and gratitude, behind every last one there must be some manner of scorn, thinly veiled anger, waxing hatred which threatens to wreck her when she tips it over the edge. This is all she knows. This is all she has ever known — and she cannot dare to _hope_.

She cannot dare to hope that her world has changed when these people talk like _they_ had, of products and money and profit _._ They are drenched in that same smoke she used to choke on all day long, and they come out carrying the scent of it. The first time she sets foot in the workshop during their labour she comes down with terrible tremors which last and last, and do not stop until she shatters a cup of hot tea on the floor. Fermet leads her out of the room and pulls her mind away with idle topics — graciously, tenderly idle, blissfully pointless. He speaks of literature and art; _is she familiar with the works of John Denham? William Drury? Shakespeare? She does not read? Then he will recite_. He pulls a book off a shelf in the study and reads her a passage aloud. She forgets the matters of drugs and alchemy, and leaves thinking of art galleries, libraries, theatres, and other such unreachable longings.

After this she bears it well; because she is not _forced_ to bear it, it is possible for her to do so. Because she knows she can leave at any time, escape does not feel dire. Her head does not spin and her hands do not shake. She brings the alchemists warm drinks during their breaks, and they speak to her, and she speaks to them happily. Fermet reads her many passages, some so many times that, although she cannot read the words herself, she can find the pages from memory. Time passes and even the racing of her heart settles.

Still, she fears she may be imagining this normality. She sees reflections of her past, every now and then.

There are moments when Begg’s twitches and tremors look too familiar. He soars above her and instinct screams that she keep her head low. Many times she has seen a likeness of this man balancing on a precipice, smiling on high but falling fast and hard, and breaking his fall with a fist against her jaw. The snap, the strike, the crack, the swelling that follows; the memories are like paintings, moments captured still and clear. The fear is a stroke of red blurring her vision from the reality.

It is only a _likeness_. She knows this. This man always breaks his own falls — _breaks_ on his own falls. He bears all the force himself; he has never used it to swing at her, and he assures her he never would. She knows this, she knows, and yet— every moment that she sees this likeness, it is this knowledge that feels imagined, and her imagination set in stone, cold and painful and _real_ when it hits her.

She supposes it isn’t fair, comparing him to those who have hurt her when he has done her no harm. Heaven knows he has helped her more than she has ever deserved to be helped. She supposes it isn’t fair that she struggles to reach her gratitude through the layers of fear. She supposes it isn’t fair that she flinches when he is around, recalling words he has never uttered and wounds he has never caused.

No, it isn’t fair.

But then, nothing ever is. She is more acquainted with this fact than most. It may eat away at her, the guilt of avoiding someone who has done nothing to earn it, but it is so easily done that she can almost convince herself she is not doing it at all. Czeslaw is young and he requires her attention. The more time she gives to him, the more she is carrying out her duty, the more she is paying Begg back for his kindness, and the less she has to worry about more complicated interactions. The work is leisure compared to what she once endured. He is a good child, and a simpler person to face than the others around her, with no shame or secrets behind his smiles. She pours herself into her new role without a second thought.

She calls it coincidence when she misses household meals. She loses track of time, that’s all, or Czeslaw is not feeling well — or there are chores to be done.

“You know you’re not a maid,” Fermet reminds her one night, laughing amiably as he lifts half a stack of plates out of her hands. She shrugs without looking at him. She knows she is not a maid, but she does not know what she _is_. A caretaker? A housekeeper? An assistant? A guest? But a guest would not seek to avoid her hosts.

“I’m happy to help.” She decides that is all that matters.

* * *

 

“Niki,” Lucrezia says calmly, taking her by the arm again. “I am _trying_ to speak to Begg. Can’t you just…” She gestures broadly to the window, then adds offhandedly, “Why don’t you go look at the pretty birds, darling?”

She gives the nurse a nudge on the way back to Begg’s bedside, and in a low voice requests that she _keep an eye on her_. The nurse nods and goes to stand beside Niki while Lucrezia sits herself down, satisfied that she can continue her discussion uninterrupted.

“Now, Begg, dear,” she begins, crossing one leg over the other. “I’m in the process of making a little deal with someone, and they happen to be interested in your… business.”

She watches him closely for a reaction. Begg, eyes closed again, barely moves. Lucrezia’s impatience grows.

“Oh, come now. You can hear me, you can understand me,” Lucrezia huffs. “Why won’t you _speak_ to me?”

* * *

 

“ _Why not sit down and talk?_ ”

Niki halts with her hand still on the door knob. She looks over her shoulder and answers hurriedly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Begg, I just have so much work to get done…”

“ _What work?_ ” he asks. She stalls. “ _The cooking is done, the cleaning is done – I saw to that myself. And as for Czeslaw, Fermet has already taken him up to bed._ ”

“He must have tired himself out today,” Fermet adds from beside him, “He was asleep in moments.”

She opens her mouth to make her excuses, but none come to her. She sighs instead, and lets the door fall shut in front of her. When she turns to face the two alchemists proper she is certain to wear a tired smile.

“Maybe I can talk for a bit,” she concedes.

Fermet offers her wine when she sits down. She raises her hand to politely dismiss the offer.

“Ale, then?” he proceeds. She shakes her head.

“No, thank you, I don’t…”

“I’ve never met anyone who wouldn’t accept a glass of wine after a long day,” he muses, pouring one for himself.

“It’s very kind of you to offer, but I…” Niki half-forces a smile, and she cannot tell whether she is accusing or seeking support when she looks to Begg. “I prefer to be in control of myself.”

“Of course.” Fermet’s resting smile straightens, clearly sensing her discomfort.

He rises very suddenly then, and ushers for Niki to remain seated when she near-instinctively begins to follow suit. “I should check on Czeslaw – no, Niki, you stay here.” She sits back further in her chair. “I will be back in a moment.”

She frowns to herself, feeling that she has unintentionally sent off the one person who might make the moment more comfortable. He has a knack for that, Fermet, she thinks; he always seems to make the worst situations more palatable.

Not that this is the _worst_ situation, she reminds herself. Begg is kind. He is not a bad man by any means. He has only ever helped her. She hates that she must continuously remind herself of this.

He smiles to her as Fermet hurries out of the kitchen, a jittery smile that shakes by fractions every second. She wishes she could find it reassuring.

“ _Have something to eat,_ ” he says, gesturing to a plate of leftovers in the middle of the table.

She shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“ _You won’t drink, you won’t eat –_ ”

“I eat. I’ve eaten. Just –”

“ _Not properly. You never sit down and eat with us._ ”

Niki swallows. “I want to pay for my own food.” And it’s half-true. She does. That’s part of it. “– Now that I can. You give me too much already.”

“ _It’s a roll of bread. Not worth worrying about,_ ” he insists, pushing the plate over to her. Reluctantly, she picks at it.

There is quiet for a moment, then Begg asks, “ _Are you happy here?_ ”

Niki takes a small bite of bread. She hesitates.

“What do you make in the workshop?” she answers him with a question, staring at the plate in front of her.

“ _I think you know that already._ ”

She doesn’t look up. She nods.

“ _No one is forcing you to stay here if that troubles you._ ”

She falls silent, staring at the food in front of her. She thinks for a moment about the whole process of things; the drugs and the people who die because of them, and the people who create them, and the money they get, and the bread they buy, and the kindness they show to a servant girl here and there while dozens like her suffer because of them. Then she thinks about herself.

“ _You should know that what happened in Lotto Valentino wasn’t my fault. All I did was –_ ”

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You have every right to do what you want with your existence. If that’s making these drugs then that’s —”

“ _It’s not that simple. What I want out of my existence isn’t just to make drugs, it’s – to make people happy,_ ” he explains. “ _I want to create something that can bring happiness to myself and to others. If some people use that to cause misery, well, I can’t help that, but I – I just want to give people joy._ ”

_To give people joy_. Something almost boils over in Niki in that moment, something that she hasn’t let herself feel in months. For a moment she feels all the dormant rage in her flare up at once. To hear someone claim that all of that misery, all of that horror she had seen could be disregarded because it had been in pursuit of happiness — in pursuit of _happiness —_

And as quickly as the anger had filled her, it drains away. She looks at Begg’s jittery smile, and she realises it’s more like a frown being forcibly tugged upwards by some invisible set of strings, fighting against it all the way. What an effort to maintain, what a flickering, unstable, queasy, _effort_ of a smile. She has been trying to place a likeness to this man, but she has been searching the wrong memories. He is not a reflection of her masters, nor the delinquents, nor the aristocrats they sold to.

Niki can trace the resemblance now, and she cannot resent it. She thinks she has every right to be angry, but when she opens her mouth to speak she finds that she is not. “I don’t have any right to judge you. I can’t judge anyone for looking for happiness,” she says simply.

“ _Then you’re content to stay here?_ ”

“I… I don’t know. Not forever, but…” She nods slowly. “For now, yes. I’m grateful to be here.”

“ _Good to hear it. You’re a big help with Czeslaw. Not to mention…_ ”

“Mr. Begg,” Niki interrupts. Begg pauses. “It’s… difficult to explain why, so… if you don’t mind, I won’t. But please, if – if you do find a way to be happy,” she mumbles. “If you do, will you please tell me?”

* * *

 

“If you’re going to tell me _no_ just tell me _no_ ,” Lucrezia groans after several more minutes of silence. And –

“… No,” utters Begg, very audibly.

“Oh, don’t say that! You’re not supposed to say it!” she snaps, then clears her throat with a dainty cough. “You hardly have to do anything. I’m certainly not expecting you to _make_ anything, not in your state.” She lets out a curt laugh. “All you need to do give me some instructions and I’ll get my men to do the rest, okay, dear?”

So slow is the action that it takes Lucrezia a moment to realise Begg is shaking his head.

“I stopped… years ago.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “As if any of you alchemists ever really stop.”

In her growing confusion, the nurse fails to notice that Niki has once again wandered over to the bed. She stands behind Lucrezia’s chair now and looks on with interest.

“It’s… not my business… anymore.” He seems to look at Niki then. “Sorry.”

“Excuse me, I think Mr. Garott needs some rest,” the nurse intervenes just as Lucrezia’s expression turns foul. “You’re welcome to return tomorrow.”

“Hm. I don’t think that will be necessary,” Lucrezia says, standing and brushing down her clothes with her hands. She inhales sharply then smiles sweetly to the nurse. “Thank you for the time. – Let’s be on our way, Niki.”

She makes her way to the door then stops and waits for the other woman. As Niki is ambling over, she hears Begg mumble to her.

“I… never found…”

Niki stops walking, and shakes her head before he can finish speaking. She picks up the half-crumpled greeting card Lucrezia had dropped on the floor and hands it to Begg. She is almost smiling.

Then she turns and follows Lucrezia out the door.

* * *

 

“It’s a fascinating goal, isn’t it? Rest assured that I would not be working with him if it weren’t.” Niki almost jumps. She spins around to find Fermet leaning against the doorframe she had just stepped through.

“Unfortunately, I simply don’t believe that he’ll ever achieve it.”

She wraps her arms around herself, frowning. “Why did you bother leaving the room if you were only going to eavesdrop?”

“I thought you needed a moment of privacy,” he explains. “But I was curious.”

She turns to walk away, but he stops her when he continues: “Please excuse my bad habits. I am too used to being a fly on the wall…” He shakes his head to himself. “I should have simply spoken to you, but, truth be told, I was worried.” 

“You were worried?” Niki presses, furrowing her brow.

“I could tell you weren’t entirely happy here. I worried that if I pushed you into speaking about it, that alone might have been the straw that broke the camel’s back,” he explains, and frowns. “I would have hated to be the reason you chose to leave.”

“I’m not going to leave,” Niki says, and surprises herself with the speed of her response. Only minutes earlier she had stalled to answer whether she was content to stay; now, she finds, her mind is made up.

Fermet nods. “And I’m glad to hear it.”

She shifts on her feet. After a moment, she speaks, curious.

“You said you wouldn’t work with Mr. Begg if he didn’t have the reasons he does,” she says, tracing the lines of the floor panels with toes.

“The actions people take are far more interesting when one knows the intent behind them.” He shrugs. “Begg’s work is… more emotional than it looks on the surface.”

“And that’s why you’re fine working with him, even though you know how much damage he’s caused?” Niki asks, sharper than she intends. Fermet does not answer straight away. Worrying she has offended him, she moves on quickly.

“I recognised him,” she mumbles, “when he was explaining it to me, why he makes… what he does.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Mr. Begg is… strange. Sometimes I don’t know if I should trust him, other times I don’t feel I trust him enough. He’s difficult to place.” She pauses a moment, wondering if she has said too much. Fermet does not interrupt. “But when he explained why he makes those drugs, when he explained that it was all about finding happiness, I think I recognised him. I’ve met someone like him before. A friend of mine…”

Fermet gives a low chuckle.

“Oh but Niki, _that’s_ something you can recognise in almost anyone,” Fermet says. He elaborates: “Since the dawn of time people have been driven to do things – terrible things and wonderful things alike – citing happiness for their reason. Humans will do anything to reach contentment, for their own sake or for the sake of others. They will start wars and end them, too.”

He tilts his head when she falls silent. “Pursuing happiness might be the single most recognisable trait across the entire human race, wouldn’t you agree?” His smile turns solemn, and he adds, “I have certainly seen enough people fail to reach the pleasant endings they strive for…”

“I suppose…” Niki swallows, feeling somehow less comforted than she had previously.

“I gather that you aspire to find happiness, too, Niki.” She looks up at him. He carries on, waving his hand dismissively. “I suppose what I mean is that you should not trust Begg because you recognise a friend in him. If you trust him, it should be because you recognise _human nature_ in him. Do you not see that resemblance in yourself, too?”

She stares at him, and she cannot decide whether he is throwing guesses out in the dark or seeing directly through her. She holds herself tighter, clears her throat.

“I’m very tired,” she says at last. “I’d like to go to bed now, if that’s okay.”

He nods, and bids her a pleasant goodbye as she leaves.

She looks too long out her bedroom window that night, staring at her own image as it imposes itself onto what lay beyond the glass.

* * *

 

"What a waste,” Lucrezia groans. “You can barely even recognise him.”

About a meter behind her, Niki ambles down the corridor. To Lucrezia, she is quiet and absent, watching for reflections in windows that they pass, watching for resemblance to something she knows, or something she knew once.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic back in 2016 (???? I think) for the 'moments' prompt in a baccanovember thing and was surprised to find that it was mostly done, and then I was further surprised to find how difficult it is to finish a fic when you have a bunch of disjointed scenes and you can’t really remember where you were going or how to write the characters. It's still pretty disjointed but bits of it were worth posting, so being the kind of standards-be-damned writer I am, I am posting all of it.


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